


Red River, New Mexico

by SquishySterek (Herm_own_ninny)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ATVs, Angst, Baking, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hiking, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Peter has a cabin in the woods, Picnics, Sleepless nights, Slow Burn, Stiles bonds with a bunny, Suicide mention, early morning hike, homophobic sheriff Stilinski, lake, mention of drunkenness/inebriation, themes of depression, they are in New Mexico
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-09-30 20:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herm_own_ninny/pseuds/SquishySterek
Summary: Stiles clenched his jaw to hold back a scream, pounding his fist against the side of his steering wheel. Again. And again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This should be fun. It was supposed to be short and it's turned into 4k in the first chapter and (as of posting right now) has about 2 chapters currently planned out.  
> Why do I do this to myself?

Stiles clenched his jaw to hold back a scream, pounding his fist against the side of his steering wheel. Again. And again.  
This panic attack was bad. It had come in waves, probably because he'd had to hold it off during a band concert at Isaac's college. He appreciates music, loves intrumentalists, and Isaac knew. He invited him to the end of the year concert for the music department. Stiles had accepted the invitation with vigor, ready to get out of Beacon Hills for at least a night and hear live music.  
He'd been exhausted heading in, having spent the night before researching a new threat and producing the means with which to kill it. He'd delivered the information to Lydia and Scott before leaving for the concert, his eyes heavy and his brain a little foggy. He was able to shove it to the side and smile, joke around with Isaac and his new college buddies when he made it to the campus, roughing around with them and calming down for their pre show ritual after tying Isaac's bowtie.  
He sat down with Danny off to the side and settled in for the concert. Some of the kids were freshman, nervous and letting it show with timid movements that made their pieces sound just a little sharp. Stiles still clapped loudly for each performer nonetheless, grinning as he waited for Isaac. His percussion piece on the marimba would be third to last, prefacing a trio with another student and his director, and then a freshman would be ending the concert.  
When Isaac came onstage Stiles and Danny made sure to be the loudest clappers, the two grinning proudly as they watched their friend come onstage. Isaac gave a short background of the piece and composer, detailing its three movements - arrival, partying, and joy.  
Stiles had been content the entire concert before the third movement of Isaac's piece. He hadn't been prepared for the nagging voice in his head.  
_The only reason you know this is happy is because he said it was. You don't know what happiness is._  
A shiver ran down Stiles’ back and he sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and trying to take a deep breath that wouldn't be noticed by Danny. Why was this happening right now?  
_You're not happy. You never have been and you never will be. The closest thing you have to happiness is Peter and he left you._  
Stiles had clenched his jaw at the thought, hot tears budding and threatening to spill over. He wanted to argue with the voice that Peter left because of the damage and bad memories the alpha pack had brought with them, but he couldn't fight it. All he could think of were the times Peter would step away from him, grimace at something he said, roll his eyes or call Stiles idiotic.  
_The closest thing you have to happiness left you because you make him feel like shit. You'll never get to experience this music like a normal person._  
Stiles leaned forward so his arms rested on the seat in front of him and tried another steady breath, but the tears had already begun falling and the only thing he could do was try to keep quiet. He rested his cheek against his hand, discreetly wiping his tears every so often and sniffing as normally as possible, even faking a sneeze every so often.  
The trio piece began, another lively arrangement with the three of them dancing and fooling around as they played, everyone in the audience laughing when appropriate. Stiles was able to fake it, even with tears cascading down his cheeks.  
_Peter is only happy around Chris. You're too young and naive and worthless to be with him. He always talks to Chris and is happy to spend time with him._  
Stiles successfully choked back his sob with a cough, but Danny had leaned forward to pat his back. With Stiles’ shaky breath Danny's eyes zeroed in on him, taking in his watery cheeks and trembling lips. “What's wrong?” He whispered, setting a hand on Stiles’ thigh and squeezing softly.  
Stiles mumbled a quiet “Nothing.” and kept his eyes trained steadily onstage.  
“Is it something happening right now? Something that I can fix? Is it something I did or someone around us did? Do we need to step out?”  
“All I need you to do right now is stop asking questions. I'm barely holding it together right now,” Stiles whispered, his shoulders shaking as he bit his lip, trying not to pay attention to the pity in Danny's gaze.  
“Talk to me about it afterwards.”  
“No,” Stiles shook his head, resting on his elbows again and keeping his eyes steady on the performance.  
_Peter left with Chris to be happy away from you._  
Stiles dug his nails into his palm, teeth digging back into his lower lip as a new wave of tears spilled over. The voice was right. He'd driven Peter away. He'd shared too much and been too invasive and foolishly thought Peter felt the same.  
Stiles pulled out his phone and sent Isaac a quick text before he got up and walked out, rubbing his tears free as he sped-walked out of the building and to his car. He had the door opened when Danny grabbed his arm, rooting him to the spot.  
“What's wrong?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Bullshit. What is wrong, Stiles? I'm not letting you leave in this condition. You could die on the way home.”  
“If only everyone were that lucky,” Stiles muttered, shaking off Danny's hand and climbing in the Jeep.  
“Are you really going to make me call Peter to talk some sense into you?”  
“Good fucking luck getting a hold of him. I've tried the past month and gotten shit,” Stiles scoffed bitterly, waiting for Danny to step back before slamming his door shut. He pulled out of the spot and parking lot, his hands shaking as he finally let his sobs free. He made it a couple of blocks away from the campus before pulling into a parking spot off of the side of the road and turning off the Jeep.  
Stiles clenched his jaw to hold back a scream, pounding his fist against the side of his steering wheel. Again. And again.  
He wasn't good enough for anyone or thing. He wasn't enough to keep up with Scott and help with the pack, to keep up with Lydia's brilliant mind. He was too nervous to be able to hang out comfortably with Erica and her teasing complements or Boyd's generally disgusted mood. Derek outright hated him. Danny just pitied him, and Isaac only had him around for the support Stiles gave for his music. He'd driven Peter away, and Chris with him when Allison had died protecting Stiles from the alpha pack.  
And his dad… His dad saw too much of his mom in him, was too overwhelmed by his ADD and nightmares to stay away from the bottle once Stiles had made it to his teens. Then the angry rants about gays had started and Stiles had retreated farther from his father emotionally.  
The thought had him yelling through a sob, pounding his fists against his steering wheel once more. He couldn't tell his dad something so simple yet definitive about who he was as a person. He wanted to so badly, so very badly. To be able to talk about the men he had had and currently had feelings for. But then he remembers the sober and drunken ravings about the “faggots that take it up the ass, tainting the very atmosphere with the oxygen they use up and steal from the regular people.” Of all of the “dipshits ruining the country and politics, taking the status quo and fucking it up because they like taking and giving it _up their goddamn asses_.”  
Stiles remembers vividly the night his dad had looked at him, completely sober - a truly rare occasion - and said, “Son. If you ever decide to be gay, I won't allow you in my life or my house. You will be dead to me.”  
The memory had him throwing his head back against the seat with a pained yell, digging his feet into the floorboard and pushing down as hard as he could. He would lose what little he had with his father if he were to ever come out to him. He'd be kicked out and disowned and then be a burden to his pack in needing a place to stay or having to get a full time job to pay for a place of his own.  
Stiles was choking on a sob now, his hands throbbing as bruises formed, his body wracking with shivers - whether from the cold or his emotions, he wasn't sure.  
His phone lit up with an unknown number and Stiles shook his head, quickly forcing himself to faux sober up before he answered the call.  
“Stiles Stilinski. What can I do for you?”  
“I can hear your heartbeat through the phone. You really are fucked up.”  
Stiles went tense as he heard Peter's voice for the first time in over a month, new tears rising up. “ _Fuck you_ ,” He hissed, ending the call and throwing his phone at the passenger side window. The glass cracked and his phone screen shattered. His phone wasn't broken, the screen illuminating the dark car with Peter's number. The number he hadn't given Stiles but had apparently given Danny.  
He answered the call right before it hung up, leaving it in the seat.  
“I can't hear anything you say. I'm not putting the phone on speaker because you're going to fucking listen to what I have to say and I don't want to hear any bullshit in response. I don't want to hear rejection I know will be there. I'm going to say what I have to say and then I'm… I don't know what I'll do,” Stiles sighed out, glancing out his windshield. He stayed silent for a while, enough that he could faintly hear Peter saying his name and something else, probably asking if he was still there. It was another minute or so before Stiles finally spoke.  
“I care for you. I'd say I love you but I know it's not possible and I wouldn't put that kind of thing on you. But then again, would you give a shit about someone that drove you away from Beacon Hills? Honestly, would you? You wouldn't, so fuck it. I love you, I'm in love with you. You and your goddamn smile and laugh and warm hugs and protective demeanor and complete disregard for the law in certain aspects. I'm depressed, I'm genuinely just a piece of shit, fucked up person in general, but damn if I wasn't close to happiness when I was with you-” Stiles’ voice broke as the memories of his thoughts at the concert came flooding back and he swallowed back a sob and pounded his fist against the steering wheel a few more times, letting tears fall. “But I fucking drove you away. Every time I sat next to you and you'd scoot away a little, the way your expression would go hard every time I asked to stay over because Dad would be too drunk that night, every damn fucking time I was an absolute piece of shit _idiot_ and did stupid things that you had to risk your life to rescue me from. I- fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry I didn't see it earlier. That you wanted to be with Chris. I'm so fucking sorry I didn't step away from you, that I drove you away. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fell for you and forced myself on you in any and every way. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” Stiles trailed off, staring out his window and trembling violently from the cold now. His fingers were numb and his feet were dead weights in the floorboard. “I'm sorry I existed at the same time as you and fucked with what you had.”  
Stiles could hear Peter saying something but didn't want to listen. He was either lying so Stiles wouldn't do something stupid so he wasn't on Peter's conscience - but then again, Stiles would have to mean something to him, so it was probably just so he wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath. The other possibility was Peter telling him he was right and that would just drive him down into a darker spot.  
He ended the call with another quiet apology and curled his legs up, turning to look out the driver window and watching cars in the distance as snow began to fall slowly.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes to knocking on his window that was completely frosted over. He lifted his head and grimaced at the stiffness in his neck and the ache in his head. His hands were still numb as he reached over and unlocked the door. He shied away at the noise of the frost breaking when his door opened, and at the bright light pouring into his noticeably darker car.  
The face was talking, Stiles was sure of it, but he couldn't understand any of the words or really see who it was with the way his eyes weren't adjusting to the brightness outside.  
There was a beat of silence before a pair of arms were lifting Stiles from his car. He made a quiet noise of protest but quickly hid his face in the person's neck to block out the bright light that was trying to blind him. They walked - or, rather, Stiles was carried - a short distance before being placed in a car. He resumed his earlier position, knees to his chest and facing the window, his eyes closed this time because the sun was still hurting his eyes. He felt either a blanket or jacket get draped over him before the door was shut. The driver door opened a few seconds later and the car started, heat blasting from the vents.  
“You're a dumbass, you know?”  
They'd been driving for a while before the person spoke up. Stiles peeked his eyes open and looked over, his heart catching when he saw Peter glaring at the road in front of them. In lieu of a response Stiles turned back to the window and shrunk down into the seat. He could feel the tears coming on, yet he knew he had nothing left to spare and would simply be haunted with the feeling until they got wherever they were going. Peter was probably just going to drop him off at the loft and yell at him in front of everyone before leaving again.  
Stiles’ chest tightened and he balled his hands into fists, the ache from his undoubtedly bruised knuckles a welcome pain to ground him.  
“Keep your breathing under control, I'm going too fast to be able to worry about you passing out on me.”  
Stiles swallowed thickly and let out a slow breath, the sinking feeling that filled him enough to even his breathing out.  
They rode along in silence after that, Stiles watching the blurry landscape pass them by. It was probably an hour before he finally realized he didn't recognize any of their surroundings. “We aren't going to Beacon Hills.”  
“There's a coven wreaking havoc. I'm not letting them drag you into that with the condition you're in.”  
“If you don't people will die,” Stiles mumbled, rubbing his face and sitting up slightly before pulling his phone out. No texts, no surprise that no one knew he wasn't there or thought to check on him. He moved the jacket thrown over him behind him before putting it on, relishing in the feeling of the warm, worn fleece as he texted Danny and told him where he was and what happened.  
“People will die, regardless. Besides, Chris is there helping them out. I told him how to kill them.”  
“So, my way was wrong,” Stiles sighed, closing his eyes and letting his forehead thunk against the window with his defeat.  
“You were actually right, just missing one thing. They have to be beheaded, not stabbed through the neck. It would've slowed them down, surely, but not have killed them. You would've noticed and gone back and retranslated and seen that your original dictionary was older and one word had a secondary meaning that wasn't in that book.”  
“I was still wrong and could've cost more lives.”  
“Yes, but still less lives than if they'd been left to their own devices,” Peter muttered. Stiles tensed up and pressed his body as close to the door as possible, the ghost feeling of tears budding once more haunting him.  
They rode along in tense silence this time through seventeen more exits before Peter spoke once more. “You know I'm not mad at you for that? I'm mad at them for using you and relying so heavily on you but not caring about you.”  
Stiles shrugged and kept his eyes on the tall electric windmills they were passing, his eyes growing heavy. “I've gotta be good for something.”  
“You're good for many things, Stiles. Not just researching.”  
“True, I'm good at being stupid, annoying, a burden, a disappointment to my father and family name, and an idiot with feelings.”  
Peter sighed heavily and they fell back into silence once more until they took an exit.  
“Red River? You're staying in New Mexico?”  
Peter didn't say anything, but Stiles’ mind was racing with memories. Of every time he'd talked of wanting a cabin in the mountains, of the fresh air and comfort of the woods and small towns. Of the times his mom had brought him and dad out here when he was young. The ATV rides along the mountain and the times dad had messed with Stiles into thinking the vehicle would tip and they'd fall off the mountain; the way mom would hold him when he'd cling to her after that and playfully berate dad. The trail rides and Stiles’ favorite horse that somehow had managed to fart to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and made 7 year old Stiles’ day. The small chocolate store and the Town square putting on outdoor movies and square dancing. The creek that ran behind the cabin mom had always rented and the time Stiles and her had ridden it in a small inflatable raft until they hit a fence that made it so they couldn't follow the flow of water any farther.  
“Why are you here?”  
“To be as close to you as possible,” Peter murmured after a beat of silence. Stiles finally looked over at him, taking in his appearance. A thick but well groomed and kept beard, longer hair pushed back from his face. A soft flannel with a Henley underneath and white washed jeans. They were in an older Range Rover, the interior dark and mostly clean - there was a bag of clothes in the back seat and some leaves in the floorboard.  
“How is half a country away close to me?”  
Peter tightened his grip on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.  
“You said last night that you drove me away, that I never wanted to be around you.”  
Stiles blinked slowly, turning away from Peter as shame and embarrassment burnt through him.  
“I left because I wasn't able to control myself and it would have just gotten worse.”  
Stiles said nothing, staring intently out the window as he dug his nails back into his palm.  
“There were nights you stayed and I heard you talking to Isaac about the things your dad did and said… Stiles, I had to ask Derek to make sure I didn't do anything reckless. Either to your dad or to the friendship we had.  
Stiles looked over at Peter and took in his steeled expression and the way his jaw was set determinedly, how he kept adjusting his grip on the wheel almost nervously.  
“I left because,” Peter paused and laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “I left because I thought you had feelings for Isaac.”  
“You… what?”  
Peter shook his head, tightening his grip on the steering wheel before pulling off the main road into a familiar grouping of buildings. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, his hands balling into fists this time more out of aching loss than anything else as they pulled up to a familiar cabin. This time when he felt tears, they actually budded in his eyes.  
“What are you trying to do? What did I do?” Stiles whispered brokenly as he looked over the cabin his family used to visit every spring.  
“You made a love confession and then talked shit about yourself and locked yourself in a car while it was snowing,” Peter said slowly. Stiles could picture how fervently he was trying to keep himself schooled in just the tone of his voice. “You said there's no way I could return the feelings and then hung up without letting me speak.”  
Stiles hands were shaking as he kept staring out the window, his jaw clenched tight as the first tear fell.  
“When I left Beacon Hills I clung to the one thing I remembered about you that was within my reach.”  
The two of them sat together in silence before Peter finally sighed and cut the engine, unbuckling and opening the door. “I'm going inside. The door's unlocked whenever you want to come in. If you do. There's service. If you don't want to stay I'll pay for a cab or plane ticket.”  
Stiles stayed quiet while Peter waited for a response and eventually shut the door and walked inside. Stiles closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, trying to school himself. So much had happened in so little time. Peter was only confusing him with everything. Why couldn't it just be simple and clean cut? Why couldn't Stiles know if this was some fever dream or Peter pitying him or if it were real? Why did everything have to be so difficult?

Stiles opened his eyes to darkness outside, not sure when he'd fallen asleep and with no recollection of even closing his eyes. He unbuckled and opened the door, rubbing his hands over his face before he stepped out. The tightness in his legs and hips had him grimacing and pausing to stretch, grunting softly at the feeling. He shut the door and looked at the cabin, taking a deep breath before trudging over and stepping onto the porch. His hand was outstretched to open the door as Peter opened it himself. He was carrying a bowl and spoon and bottle of water. The two of them stood staring at each other in slightly stunned silence, looking the other over in reverence.  
“I made lemon chicken soup. I… I was bringing it to you.”  
“I was coming inside,” Stiles replied dumbly, stepping in closer and shivering at the contrast of the heat from the doorway compared to the crisp cold at his back. Peter nodded and stepped out of the way, watching Stiles as he stepped inside quickly and shuddered happily at the warmth that completely cascaded over him.  
“Do you want to join me in the living room or do you want to be alone?”  
Stiles looked around and noticed the pile of shoes by the front door, kicking off his own. He took notice of how close he was to Peter - they were still a foot apart, but he was radiating warmth and looked very huggable. Naturally, Stiles had to act on instinct instead of filing the thought away. Which is why he now had his arms wrapped around Peter's waist and his nose tucked under his jaw. It was too late to stop and too early to pull away from the hug, so Stiles stayed like that as Peter set the bowl on the entry table and wrapped his arms around Stiles and held him tight.  
“I'm sorry.”  
“I'm not sure what for, but I forgive you. I always will. It's kind of annoying how I can't stay mad at you.”  
Stiles closed his eyes and took in a shaky breath, adjusting his stance so he could lean against Peter slightly. They stayed like that, rocking to and fro just slightly, Peter gently massaging Stiles’ back as he let the hug take as long as he needed.  
“The soup's going to get cold, isn't it?”  
“There's more still heating on the stove.”  
“But I don't want it to go to waste,” Stiles mumbled, looking over his shoulder at the bowl on the table behind him.  
“The couch is big enough we can sit together,” Peter said gently, squeezing Stiles once more before letting go of him and grabbing the bowl again.  
So they sat together, Stiles pressed to Peter's side. The wolf had an arm draped across his shoulders as they ate their soup together and watched the HGTV program that had been on when Peter turned on the TV.  
“I can't believe she wants marble and laminate together.”  
“It's going to look tacky,” Peter muttered in agreement, setting his empty bowl on the coffee table beside Stiles’. He grabbed a blanket and set it over their laps before resuming his earlier position. He absentmindedly reached to comb through Stiles’ hair.  
It felt good and Stiles decided to indulge himself, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against Peter's shoulder.  
“The soup tasted better than when you used to make it. What's different?”  
“Chris and I have a green house and grow a lot of vegetables ourselves. The lemons seem to be… they just taste better, somehow.”  
At the mention of Chris Stiles coughed quietly and sat up, trying to nonchalantly shake off Peter's arm. He easily adjusted them and tried to push away the aching feeling at the loss of contact. He wasn't going to overstep anything, Peter had left with Chris and they'd been living together. There was something to that.  
“Do you want to see it?”  
“S-Sorry. What?”  
“The green house. I'm tired of watching this lady ruin her house with poor design choices, and I probably need to water everything. We don't have the automatic sprinklers set right now.”  
Stiles nodded dumbly, following Peter through the kitchen where he set the bowls in the sink and then down a hallway to the back porch. It was covered and heated, thankfully, so Stiles’ bare feet didn't have much to complain about as he followed Peter across the wood to the far side and the green house. It looked massive and Stiles could only imagine what all was growing inside. No guessing prepared him for the sight he was met with when Peter opened the door. The humidity was easy to get over as he stepped into the somehow still lush and rich soil. 6 large beds and small grove. The green house had to have the same floorspace as the cabin's bottom floor to house everything it did.  
“How do you have all of this after only a month?”  
“The vegetables grow pretty quickly, but they're nowhere near ready. We bought a lot of the trees fully mature in the next town over and planted them so we wouldn't have to try and deal with the tricky methods of raising saplings.”  
Stiles nodded and stepped away from Peter's side, running his fingers over the large fronds on the single coconut tree inside the structure. “I thought Chris doesn't like coconut?”  
“He doesn't. I've actually grown to like it because of your German Chocolate cake recipe,” Peter murmured, grabbing a hose and following along behind Stiles and watering when necessary. Stiles paused at the lemon tree, reaching for a lemon and picking it off. He brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff, sighing happily at the citrusy, tart scent that flooded his nostrils. “They smell amazing,” Stiles murmured, looking at Peter with a grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles blinked his eyes open to a dimly lit living room. He took a second to get his bearings before he sat up, rubbing his eyes and sighing heavily. He glared at the clock, the hands mocking him with their early morning notation. Stiles scowled at them.  
He sighed and stood up, grabbing the jacket Peter had given him before their car ride. He slipped some house shoes on that were by the front door and stepped out onto the porch. Hissing at the cold that bit through his jeans and jacket, Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets as he stepped off the porch and tilted his head back. The stars were twinkling overhead, a single shooting star racing across the sky and disappearing off the top of the neighboring mountain. Stiles sighed happily and sat in the grass with his legs crossed, watching the stars above.  
Once he was sure he'd taken in the complete beauty of the night sky he decided to take in his surroundings. The trees around were trembling slightly in the wind, creating a sea-like mirage of deep green water rippling with soft waves. Stiles hummed happily at the thought, watching wave after wave cascade over the side of the mountain and crash into nothing against the road on the other side of the small neighborhood. A cracking twig nearby broke his focus and Stiles turned towards the sound, smiling dumbly when he saw a bunny sniffing through the grass. He watched it hop around and root for food, only snapping one other twig. Stiles shifted to hopefully stave off the stiffness in his back and the bunny lifted its head, stared at him for a second, then turned tail and fled.  
Stiles watched it go with a soft smile before stretching and standing. He made sure he had his wallet in his pocket before switching the house shoes for his Converse and shutting the screen and front door behind him.  
It was easy to remember the way back to the road into town. Stiles was only slightly out of breath as he passed the grouping of mailboxes at the main entrance, not used to the high altitude. He remembered making the walk as a child with his dad when they would walk up to get groceries for breakfast for mom.  
He'd noticed the small grocers with the gas station on the way into town, not the original one, but a grocers all the same. He'd also noticed Peter was low on milk and eggs last night, so he figured if he was crashing there the least he could do was buy a few groceries.  
The road was dark and lit only by the moon above. There were no cars on the road, but that wasn't a surprise. Red River wasn't much of a town many would pass through, too high up in the mountains to be on the way of many travellers. It was a vacation or retirement spot. The trails, Goose Lake, and skiing in the winter brought many renters and companies to rent out the cabins. There were very few actual citizens of the town, most of them owning ATV or Horse rental companies or the shops and handful of small restaurants in town. Any other permanent residents were retired couples or corporate executives that owned a cabin for vacation use.  
Stiles grimaced at the tinkle of the bell as he entered the small store. He'd be eternally grateful it was a 24 hour place, fitted with a small grocery section, the mandatory snack shelves, and, surprisingly enough, a few touristy shirts. He smiled at the one with a grizzly on Goose Lake and snagged one for himself before grabbing a half gallon of both 2% and whole milk - Peter liked the 2% but Stiles couldn't stand it. After that, he grabbed a 12-pack of eggs and started his way forward. He would not go out of his way to grab some Doritos and Twizzlers, which is why he couldn't complain that they were conveniently on the way, albeit an aisle over. The attendee at the register was an older man Stiles didn't recognize, who seemed half asleep as he rang the items and mumbled the price. Stiles paid in cash and took the bags before stepping outside. The sun was starting to peak over the mountains and he smiled at the slivers of weak sunlight that dappled his skin and surroundings.  
He heard an ATV start up before driving past, the driver - probably a scout for the trails - waving at him before turning off the road a hundred feet or so away and onto the start of the trail. A hike sounded nice, Stiles would need to see if Peter had any boots he could borrow. Or would let him borrow. If he was staying that long. With heavy shoulders at the realization of something he should've just known for the time being, Stiles set back on his way to the cabin. A couple of ATVs passed on his trudge back down the road. He saw the waves out of his peripheral vision but had nothing in him to wave back. He'd really allowed himself to indulge last night, so much so he didn't even stop to think about leaving. He probably should, soon. Scott was bound to need help with something and dad would need groceries in a day or two.

Stiles kicked off his shoes when he reentered the house and made his way to the kitchen. Peter was at the sink doing the dishes, his body language stiff. Stiles had already overstayed. Perhaps he should have gotten a ride to the next town over to figure out a ride home. Of course, he did not think that far ahead. Instead he had bought groceries, with the idiotic inference he would be staying any longer.  
Stiles silently put the milk and eggs in the fridge. He nearly ran into Peter after shutting the door, intent on at least drying his dishes from last night. Peter had already done enough for him.  
“Why didn't you tell me you were going into town? I could've driven you.”  
Stiles paused and gave Peter a quizzical look, trying to figure out exactly why he sounded angry but was still saying he could've helped.  
“I woke up at 2 in the morning and sat outside before I went. Dad and I used to all of the time, I didn't think anything of it,” Stiles shook his head slightly, taking a small step backwards. “Is it because I left the door unlocked? We always used to, I'm sorry I didn't think about that. Or is it because you needed something else and now you'll have to make another trip when I could've just gotten it the first time?” Stiles was rubbing his thumbs anxiously along the cuffs of his jacket - no, not his. “The jacket? I didn't have one and it's cold. I didn't mean-”  
“Do you think I'm angry?”  
“You are. You're stiff, your lips are all tight, and you've got the little glint to your eye. Your eyebrows are all Angry Hale Glower™ and you're… I don't know. You're angry.”  
“I'm upset because I thought you had left.”  
“I did leave,” Stiles frowned in confusion, looking up at Peter.  
“Not leave as in you went to town. I thought you left as in you were going back to Beacon Hills.”  
“I was thinking about it when I was walking back. I need to get out of your space, dad needs groceries in a couple of days, Scott's bound to need something-”  
“Don't leave because of other people. Okay?”  
“Why not?”  
“You had a complete breakdown. Danny told me about you saying we'd be lucky if you died. We wouldn't be. Nobody would benefit from that happening.”  
Stiles’ chest went cold as he heard the words. He clenched his jaw and took a ragged breath, shoving past Peter to get to the living room and make it to the front door. Of fucking course, the only reason Peter had shown up was because he thought Stiles going to kill himself. As if he'd let the universe win in that way, that he'd surrender that last part of himself, that he'd forego his general spiteful mood towards everything by killing himself. As if he'd be a burden to anyone by foregoing his duties to them and leave them hanging. It _was_ time to leave. He shouldn't have even been there in the first place.  
“Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?” Peter snapped, grabbing Stiles’ arm and yanking him to a stop. “You don't get to pull what you did yesterday and then walk out on me like this. What's going on in your head?”  
“Why did you come get me?” Stiles muttered, glaring out the door and keeping his body tense. If he didn't do that he would lose what little resolve he had at the moment. Peter wasn't going to see him cry. He didn't need any more pity.  
“Danny asked me to,” Peter murmured, loosening his grip on Stiles’ arm. He grimaced as he felt a tingling sensation, neither of them having realized just how tight Peter's grip had been.  
“So, he calls you in the middle of the day asking for you to come pick me up because he thinks I'm feeling suicidal and you drop everything? I've been texting you the entire time you were gone and got nothing from you. You didn't even leave your number when you left, I had to get it from Scott's phone.”  
“Did you really think I'd leave Scott my real number?”  
Stiles frowned and finally looked at Peter, narrowing his eyes at the thinly veiled amusement written across his face. “What?”  
“Did you genuinely think I'd leave my real number with him? Really, Stiles?” And Peter was laughing now, grabbing Stiles’ other arm and resting his forehead against his shoulder. “I can't believe you. You're so smart, how could you possibly think I'd do that?”  
Stiles huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, forcing Peter to stand up straight once more. Their faces were ridiculously close now. _Ridiculously close._ Stiles would even say they were cheesy romance flick about-to-kiss close. He wouldn't object to that, of course. Peter's lips didn't look amazing, but they were still kissable. Too bad he wasn't Stiles’ to kiss. So he cleared his throat and ducked his head back again, trying not to be too excited at the technicality of a kiss he received when Peter didn't move and his lips brushed over Stiles’ forehead.  
“What was so important that you are so mad at me for not receiving your texts?”  
At the memory of all of the stupid good mornings and good nights, stupid photos and random updates of how everyone was doing, Stiles’ cheeks went pink and he shrugged as nonchalantly as possible.  
“Oh, come on. What did you send me that was so important?” Peter was _teasing_ Stiles now, he could hear the laughter in his voice.  
“Take me up to the lake and I just might tell you,” Stiles looked up with a grin, proud of himself for squeezing more time to stay out of the situation. “I'll need to borrow boots, but I can rent an ATV in town.”  
“Why would you rent something I already own?” Peter scoffed, squeezing Stiles’ arm before stepping away.

Stiles never had and probably never will get used to the resources Peter has at his disposal, especially since he's been at full capacity recently and investing and buying and selling. He bought Derek a damn Manor an hour outside of Beacon Hills to have some time away with Cora. A fucking Manor, because his nephew was so emotionally scarred.  
Stiles also knew that the cabin he'd bought that had been his family’s old vacation spot had been owned by a rental company. He didn't want to have to imagine the steep price Peter had paid them to buy the building. He probably physically couldn't think of the number, let alone say or imagine having that much at his disposal in the first place.  
That said, he was eternally grateful that Peter had a four person ATV at his personal disposal, covered in protective marks and sigils(while they were black to match the vehicle, the shine gave them away). He felt a twinge of sadness at the thought that Peter had brought all of that here with him, but then again, the Argents, other hunters, and monsters wouldn't respect a mountain getaway. Not even Stiles could. He sighed quietly at the thought, staring out the passenger side at the side of the mountain. He leaned out and snagged a handful of flowers, smiling at the buds when he was able to focus on them.  
“I hope you don't plan on giving me flowers,” Peter teased, making Stiles roll his eyes.  
“If I were going to get you flowers I'd get you sunflowers, because I know they're your favorite. Too bad they don't grow up here for me to pick for you.”  
When there wasn't a smart quip in response, Stiles glanced over at Peter to see him staring intently ahead, his brow furrowed slightly and his grip tight.  
Stiles frowned and looked away, closing his eyes slightly. ADD was a gift when it came to random fact observation skills, but sometimes it threw people off that Stiles knew their favorite flower, candy, piece of clothing, or anything when they'd never explicitly told him. Of course, Peter, the solid wall of No Sharing™ wouldn't have told that to Stiles, of all people. He had to sound like a pitiful, obsessed child stalking someone he was attracted to.  
“Sunflowers aren't _my_ favorite,” Peter finally said after a while.  
Stiles looked over at him, tilting his head slightly. “Oh. They make you happy. Whose are they?”  
“Talia's. It's kind of a bitter happiness in relation to my memories of her.”  
“Oh,” Stiles said again, looking down at the clutch of small white flowers in his hand. “What are yours?”  
“Baby's breath.”  
“Really?” Stiles smiled slightly, looking over at Peter again. “For someone so high maintenance and extravagant, it's a simple flower.”  
“I'm only extravagant because the soft things are always more expensive,” Peter huffed, smiling nonetheless. “I wouldn't be able to wear most of anything at Target.”  
“Well, I only wear _Target_ because I'm a broke ass bitch.”  
Peter chuckled quietly at the statement, pulling into a parking spot in a field at the top of the mountain. “I'm taking you shopping, then. Perhaps just online shopping, because I don't want to drive 4 hours anywhere right now.”  
“You will do no such thing, because what you pay for one shirt is probably my grocery budget.”  
“They're $50 shirts, Stiles.”  
“Okay, sorry. Two shirts are my grocery budget.”  
“Which is why I'm going to be the one buying them,” Peter patted Stiles’ helmet he'd been forced to wear, chuckling quietly. “Now, come on. I have to know what I've missed out on for the past month.”  
Stiles nodded and took the helmet off, stowing it in a central compartment before grabbing the bag of snacks they'd grabbed and following Peter towards the lake.  
“I hope you realize I expect you to climb to the top with me before you get anything incriminating out of me.”  
Peter shook his head in amusement, looking back at Stiles with a small smile. “I wouldn't expect any less from you.”  
“And what's that supposed to mean?”  
“We're both high maintenance in our own ways,” Peter winked, stopping when they made it up the road to the lake. Stiles frowned and stopped even with him, their shoulders brushing together.  
“I said good night and good morning every day.”  
Peter stared straight ahead, taking in the scenery. After a heavy beat of silence, Stiles turned away from him to look out over the water and land himself. The lake hadn't changed even after all of the years. The water was still completely clear to the bottom, gentle waves from the breeze on the mountain lapping against the shore quietly. Stiles stepped in a little closer to Peter when a colder breeze blew through, shivering and grimacing at the chill that went down his spine.  
“I told you to grab a heavier jacket,” Peter smirked over at him, wrapping his arm around Stiles and pulling him against his side. “You're going to freeze before we make it halfway.”  
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Stiles huffed, pressing close against Peter with a soft, content sigh.

They ended up taking the scenic route up to the top, Stiles opting for the route that gave him more time with Peter. He could play into the high maintenance comment even if it made him feel like shit. He was allowed to be greedy with this time.  
Stiles was now at the top, standing towards the edge of the outcropping. He smiled as the wind blew up into his face, this time the shiver that ran down his spine a mixture of joy and cold.  
Peter stepped up even with him, closing his eyes to enjoy the feeling of the wind as well.  
“What else did you text me that was so important?”  
“Updates. Funny photos. A cute photo of Cora and Derek crashed together on the couch in their living room.”  
Peter nodded and stepped in closer to Stiles, holding his hand out palm up. “Let me see them?”  
Stiles swallowed thickly before pulling his phone back on and turning it on. He handed it to Peter, looking out across the Lake and other land in front of them. “My password is 1791 when it opens. Remind me to put your finger print on it later.”  
“You'd trust me with that?” Peter perked his brow, unlocking Stiles’ phone and opening his texts. “I have a feeling I'm Old Man Wolf Hale?”  
“With all of the love in the world,” Stiles grinned, playfully bumping their shoulders together before stepping back and sitting on the grass. “You're hungry?”  
“Uh, yeah. These are… this is wonderful. I'm sorry I didn't… I'm sorry I didn't give you my number before I left. This would have… can I give you my real number?”  
“What, so I can bug you all day?” Stiles scoffed, handing Peter a sandwich and a sandwich bag of chips.  
“I wouldn't give it to you if I didn't want you to 'bug me’.”  
“Peter, you came and got me because Danny told you I said you would be lucky if I died. You don't have to keep pulling all of this shit. Just eat the damn sandwich and let me enjoy the mountains. Stop with the bull-fuckery.”  
Peter didn't respond. He handed Stiles back his phone after a few heavy beats of silence before he started eating.  
Stiles shut it back off and put it in his pocket, staring out over the scenery before them. He really needed to leave, soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some possible trigger warnings for this specific chapter - they are mentions and don't make up a bulk amount of the chapter, but please be advised.
> 
> • Mention of parental abuse  
> • Mention of Nightmares  
> • Mention of drunkenness/inebriation
> 
> As with all previous chapters, there are still heavy themes of depression.

They spent the remainder of the day staring out at the lake and fields below their scenic viewpoint, noting any dogs or woodland animals that decided to pop their heads out of the thick trees on the opposite side of the lake. A handful of hikers made it up to the point, either stopping to catch their breath and take a few pictures or to “refuel”.  
Peter would point out families with little kids and he and Stiles made bets over how far they'd get before turning around because the kids were tired, the parents were fed up, or both. Of the three families they saw, Peter confirmed each time that either the dad or mom would get fed up and turn the troop around about three quarters of the way through the field. One family made it to the end before their toddler tripped and started wailing loudly enough that even Stiles could hear her.  
They tried counting the birds that would pass overhead or that landed on the lake, and an hour in their numbers were so highly contrasting that Stiles had to laugh and call that game off. He was pretty sure Peter was counting birds he simply heard, which was absolutely unfair to Stiles and his boring human senses.

Stiles finally stood as the sun began to set on the far horizon, stretching his arms and legs. “You ready to head back down?”  
“Only if you make me a promise,” Peter murmured as he stood, backpack and trash from their meal in hand.  
“What would that be?”  
“You have to stay another night and make me one of your cakes.”  
Stiles gave Peter a calculating look as he crossed his arms over his chest. “And why should I do that?”  
“You've been a dick since you arrived,” Peter said pointedly, slapping the trash to Stiles’ chest for him to hold as he walked by to start down the trail. “I think I deserve a German Chocolate cake.”  
“What makes you so sure I can cook it properly in this altitude? Air pressure affects baking.”  
“Only if you're using yeast, really. My brownies worked fine the first time I made them.”  
“You get a cake if I get brownies,” Stiles bartered, catching up to Peter to walk in pace with him.  
“The purpose of the cake was because you've been an ass to me while I open up my home to you.”  
“Hm, yeah. But -” Stiles turned around to face Peter and walk backward as they continued through the field. “-if you drove that long to come get me because I wasn't feeling that well, you're enough of a softie to make me brownies. Plus, we could even have a food fight. Or baking materials fight?”  
“What makes you so sure of yourself, about me being a softie?”  
“You got upset when you thought I left without telling you goodbye,” Stiles said pointedly, turning back around quickly so he wouldn't have to see the eye roll and annoyed look that would undoubtedly happen.  
“That's not me being a softie. That's me being…” Peter trailed off and Stiles glanced over his shoulder at him, an apologetic look on his face.  
“It's you being a good person, I know.”  
Peter's expression was unreadable, the two of them slowing to a stop and staring at the other. They stayed that way, in the middle of a field, staring at each other and wishing they could read minds. Stiles was the first to break the tense moment as he turned back around and started walking again, shoving his hands in his pockets. Peter followed suit, catching up to Stiles so they could walk in silence together back to the ATV.  
They rode down the mountain in a more comfortable silence, especially after Stiles hit his head on the bar getting in, misjudging just how low it was. The ATV really wasn't that low to the ground; Stiles was just a (self-proclaimed) idiot.

“I need a measuring cup! Don't tell me you dirtied it with your foul brownie ingredients!”  
Peter let out an amused snort, throwing the ring with the metal scoops toward Stiles.  
“How dare you! The audacity, the disrespect, the - !”  
“Cooking in my kitchen so I get to throw anything I want at a mouthy baker?” Peter said with a sly smirk, ruffling Stiles’ hair with his flour-covered hand before quickly moving out of the way of Stiles’ swinging hands as he turned around.  
“Now that's just _wrong_!”  
Peter grabbed Stiles’ wrists, holding his egg-wielding hands inert. “If you hit me with those eggs, I won't have enough for the brownie mix. Is it really worth it? And then think of the mess we'd have to clean up…”  
Stiles narrowed his eyes but lowered his hands to a non-threatening level when Peter released his grip. “Just wait until later, you'll regret it.”  
“When I'm enjoying a delicious German Chocolate cake? I sure will regret not making you make it the first night you were here.”  
“Speaking of the first night I was here…” Stiles trailed off, making his way to the fridge with an excited skip to his step. “I want some more lemon chicken soup! I could also use some proper PJs tonight, I know my clothes are starting to smell musty. It's too cold to just sleep in my boxers, even inside here,” Stiles murmured, turning around with the Tupperware container of leftover soup clutched to his chest.  
“Do you want some sweats and a shirt? Just sweats? Just a shirt…?” Peter asked without looking up from the batter he was mixing. Stiles set the bowl on the center island before walking around to where Peter was and taking a deep whiff of the PJs the older man was currently wearing.  
“Shirt and PJs. Your detergent doesn't hurt my nose,” Stiles murmured, gently brushing his hand over Peter's back before he turned around and resumed his baking.  
“You don't like detergent?” Peter asked a bit hoarsely, his shoulders tense and his movements stiff.  
Stiles frowned and took a steadying breath, pouring the batter into a Bundt pan. “Uhm, yeah. It makes me sneeze and gets on my nerves when my nose has that… the feeling that I'm going to sneeze. But it never happens and it's gross and annoying. I try to use unscented. It also doesn't hurt that most everyone prefers that so they can make sure I smell like pack without having to deal with the scent getting muddled with lavender or whatever the brand decides to use.”  
“You smell pretty good right now, you know?”  
“You're cute when you get all wolfy-possessive,” Stiles teased lightly, bumping their hips together. Peter got the message and stepped aside, watching Stiles intently as he opened the oven and put the cake inside. When he stood once more, Peter was in his personal space, leaning in to take a deep whiff of Stiles’ scent. It was only fair, Stiles argued to himself. He could ignore the excited tingling sensation that cascaded over his shoulders when Peter's nose very gently brushed against his shoulder. “You do smell a little musty, as you said. But you also smell a bit more… clear. Not so dark.”  
Stiles nodded numbly, too dumbstruck by their proximity to really take note and joke about their cheesy, cliché, chick-flick close faces. He wasn't too sure how long the moment lasted before Peter finally went back to mixing his brownies, adding extra chocolate chips - just how Stiles liked them. He couldn't help the bit of warmth in his chest at the thought of Peter remembering something so simple.  
“You can pick out what you want. I know you know where the master bedroom is. My bottoms are in the second right drawer, sleep shirts are with them. If you want some clean boxers, they're in the drawer right above. I won't fault you for going commando, though, I usually do when I sleep.”  
Stiles nodded dumbly before shaking his head slightly to clear it. “Thanks. Do you still have the spare room?”  
“It's an office space now, I got rid of the second bed. You're welcome to join me tonight, I know you were cold in the living room. It's a king bed, so you don't have to worry about kicking me off in the middle of the night.”  
Stiles snorted in amusement, shaking his head as he rounded the corner and made his way down the short hallway - if it could even be called that - to the main bedroom. “You're the one that shoved me off the bed last time we shared, Peter. I remember waking up to a bloody nose and a black eye, face down on concrete.”  
“You kicked me awake! How was I supposed to know you were right by the edge and still managing to kick me from the entire other end of the bed?”  
“We both know I work in powerful and mysterious was. Shame on you for thinking there was any way to understand my actions, especially when I'm asleep and can't be held accounta-” Stiles turned around, running straight into Peter. They both groaned at the force with which their foreheads smacked together, Stiles reaching up to hold his as he screwed his eyes shut tight. “Holy shit, you really are hard-headed.”  
“Says you,” Peter grumbled, rubbing his forehead with a sour expression.  
“Well, that's what you get for being all up in my space and sneaking up on me like that, Mr. Stalker,” Stiles mumbled, stepping into Peter's space and leaning against him slightly. “I oughta press charges for emotional distress and assault.”  
“You're the one banging heads together. I did nothing to contribute to that.”  
“It was all in self defense! How was I supposed to know you'd be all right behind me, looming and shit?”  
“You should be used to it by now,” Peter huffed, touching his thumb and forefinger to Stiles’ temples and easily pulling the pain from him.  
Stiles sighed softly as it left him, leaning more heavily against Peter and closing his eyes. They stayed in that position long after Stiles’ pain was gone; Stiles leaning against Peter while the wolf almost tenderly cupped the side of his face.  
It was a few moments later that a thought crossed Peter's mind.  
“I have something I want to show you.”  
Stiles hummed quietly in response, standing up straight and rubbing his eyes as he stifled a yawn. Peter couldn't help a bit of a fond smile before he turned around and left the room.  
Stiles sighed softly and sat down on the end of the bed, rubbing his eyes again and this time letting the yawn run its full course. When he opened his eyes, Peter was standing in front of him with a small wooden music box.  
He recognized it instantly, his throat going tight as he reached for it. Mom had looked at it in the wood shop every time they would go shopping in town. The shopkeep had promised her he'd hold it until she could get it, even promising a young Stiles it was his the moment he could pay for it. He hadn't thought about the box for a few years now, shoving it down into the pits of his mind where he tried to shove any memory he never got to fulfill with Mom before she died. He ran his fingers over the intricate carvings, tears coming to his eyes as he swore he could hear mom humming along to the tune as she played it in the shop.  
“H-How did you…?”  
“I told Mr. Sivan I was a close friend, even told him your real name, showed him pictures of us. He didn't make me pay - I know how sensitive you are about money being spent on you. He'd heard about your mom and had been searching for a mailing address. All he wanted in return was a letter or something from you with a picture of the box,” Peter said softly, setting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezing it softly.  
“How long have you had it?”  
“About a week. I was trying to decide if I should send it with a letter or deliver it in person.”  
Stiles nodded numbly and opened the music box, trying to stifle a broken sob as he saw the inscription in the dark wood inside.  
_Let me love you a little more, before you're not little anymore_  
His mom's slightly messy cursive flowed across the wood, etched into the wood by a machine of some sort. Stiles ran his fingers over the words, trying to blink back the tears blurring his vision.  
“She'd left the note inside, asked Mr. Sivan to keep it for next year. She'd almost had enough saved up. He got it engraved.”  
The beeping of the oven as it went off caused Stiles to jump in place. He wiped his eyes and sniffled, clearing his throat. “We should go get that out so I can ice the cake in the morning.”  
Peter nodded and watched Stiles set the box on the dresser before he followed the somber young man from the bedroom into the kitchen.

Stiles took in a shaky breath as he sat up in bed. It had been a while since he'd dreamt about his mom. If he could really call it a dream. “Nightmare” tended to properly describe any memory of his mother that played out in his sleep. The dream that had woken him up was no exception.  
He looked over to make sure he wouldn't be disturbing Peter when he got up, only to notice he wasn't in the bed. Stiles probably drove him off a while ago. He sighed heavily and got up anyway, doing his best to ignore his trembling fingers as he fixed the sheets and duvet into a nicely made bed.  
He managed to make it down the hallway, despite his unsteady legs, and stepped out onto the porch. The night air was crisp, goosebumps instantly raising on his skin, but the breeze quickly cooled him down and made the nightmare sweats a thing of distant memory. He made it back to the spot he'd been in the morning earlier, settling onto the still lush grass before he finally let his demeanor collapse, all of the horrible memories flooding back.  
_'He’s trying to hurt me.’_  
His mother's sick-weak voice ran through his memories with a double-sided axe, swinging every which way to shatter his resolve. Clenching his fists to stop the shaking in his hands did nothing for the harbinger of war running through his mind.  
_'He's trying to kill me.’_  
Her weak, broken plea for help to the Sheriff, as Stiles watched her from the doorway. He'd made her breakfast but Claudia had screamed and thrown it in his face. Stiles was young enough that he just ran out to get dad, not young enough that he'd just stood there and started crying. A lovely age of confusion that probably ended up saving his life. He made eye contact with his mom and nearly lost it, the anger and fear so vehemently on display something he didn't want to see from his mom. He wanted Claudia back, the real Claudia.  
_’Stop it! Stop looking at me!’_  
She'd thrown her bowl of oatmeal at Stiles. He curled up with his knees to his chest, flinching even at the memory, tears starting to well up. The bowl hit the wall by the doorway. Dad had told him later on if Mom didn't go to the hospital she could hurt Stiles really bad. Her sickness was getting worse.  
As he'd grown older, Stiles realized she was taken away because he could have died that morning. He also knew Claudia hadn't been the first person in his life he'd driven away. While it was a bit cliché and not something he wanted to think on for long, Lydia always popped up with this train of thought. They'd been close in grade school and even through most of middle school, up until the point Lydia started getting attention from the “cute guys” and decided to leave Stiles and Scott in her rearview mirror. He didn't enjoy dwelling on it, how many years he spent chasing Lydia because he didn't want to lose another female figure in his life. It was easier to play “fool in love” than the hurt best friend she'd left in middle school. The teasing and shit-talking was easier to take when it wasn't even true.  
Stiles took in a shaky breath and closed his eyes, digging his fingers into his legs he was holding tight to his chest. He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, just trying to breathe and keep his body inert as his insides were ripped carelessly to shreds by the demons of his memory running rampant. There was nothing he could do about it anymore. Even Peter had pitied him, and that was saying something. The man never showed pity, never anything more than contempt. For the lucky few he showed sarcasm and delighted humor, but Stiles knew now he'd only been dealt with as a child, to try and not reduce the broken pile of pieces to a pile of dust.

The next time Stiles looked up to take in his surroundings, the sun was coloring the sky a softer gray and he realized he should probably head inside before any of the neighbors saw him sitting outside in boxers and a t-shirt. He couldn't even stop to admire the sea of green that had mesmerized him earlier, so mentally and emotionally exhausted that even the pain and aches his body registered from holding a tense position for so long did nothing to alter his gait as he made his way back to the cabin.  
The front door was open and slightly ajar, so Stiles easily stepped inside, rubbing his hands over his face. It took him a few seconds to register the fact that there were several people in the living room, so he stopped and turned around to take them all in.  
“Why are you here?”  
“You weren't answering your phone. We thought something bad had happened, especially when we found the Jeep on the side of the road, abandoned. Peter kidnapped you, held you here. We just got a hit from a couple in town that had seen you buying groceries the night before.”  
“Do I look kidnapped?” Stiles sighed, leaning against the sofa as the heaviness in his bones finally settled in. He didn't have much in him for all of the things he wanted to say right now.  
“You look like you're hurt,” The sheriff said matter-of-factly, stepping toward Stiles. Stiles held a hand up in front of himself and his father stopped in his tracks, looking slightly confused.  
“That’s never truly concerned you before, has it? Not when mom would throw things at me and you'd comfort her, not when I tried to talk and ask about testing for my ADD and you sided with my teachers, saying I was acting out for attention, not when I had to drive my drunken father home from his own station at 2 a.m. because he was too inebriated to even speak. I may look and feel like shit right now, but I've felt better here, on a trip I consented to, than I ever did in Beacon Hills. My biggest worry here? Getting into Peter's personal space, maybe falling into the creek and getting wet and extremely cold. Falling while hiking,” Stiles trailed off, shrugging as he felt another wave of exhaustion roll over him. “Take the cuffs off of him and leave. If you need groceries there's a fucking list of everything I get every time I go. Just let me be alone, for once in my life. Let me process every shitty thing that's ever happened to me, since I was never given that luxury.”  
The room fell into a tense, awkward silence, but Stiles had nothing in him to care. He simply nodded once to the local sheriff standing next to Peter, glossed over the other three officers in the room, and went down the hallway back to Peter's bedroom.  
Stiles sat on the bed, the music box once more in his grip, tracing over the patterned wood. He wasn't sure how long he had been there before Peter walked in and stood in front of him.  
“Do you want to go into town today? We'll get you some pyjamas at the Walmart, maybe a new shirt and same pants, and then I can take you shopping for real.”  
Stiles shrugged, scraping his nail over a corner of the box ever so slightly.  
Peter knelt down in front of Stiles, setting his hands over his. “Thank you for having your dad let me go. Maybe you should send a quick text to everyone back home? Scott was worried, Erica was going a little crazy. Danny didn't tell them and he's been looking for you for two days already.”  
“I'll think about it,” Stiles mumbled, turning his hands over to hold Peter's hands. “Any update on Chris?”  
“He met up with an old friend and is staying up in Oregon for a bit. I'm pretty sure she's more than just a friend, though. He said something about a vampire coven, but I have a feeling that's probably not the only reason,” Peter chuckled, squeezing Stiles’ hands gently.  
“Oh? Who is she?”  
“A hunter friend Gerard made him stop talking too because she was too radical for thinking that werewolves were still people.”  
Stiles nodded and set the music box aside before slipping off the end of the bed and joining Peter on the ground. He wrapped his arms around Peter's waist, tucking his face in the curve of his neck. “We can go into town, I just need a moment. I had a bad dream last night.”  
“I figured. You kept muttering and rolling around,” Peter murmured, wrapping Stiles up in a tight hug. “I was actually going into the shops to get you some comfortable shoes for today when your dad and the sheriff grabbed me.”  
“I'm sorry about that,” Stiles sighed heavily, closing his eyes before he let go of Peter and sat back on his heels.  
“Why didn't you tell him you were here?”  
“He never really cares where I am. Nobody does. Isaac tries his best, Erica, too. Danny usually does, but not until maybe a day or two later. They probably only noticed so quickly because there's a threat.”  
“That's not true. Danny texted me every morning to make sure you were still here with me.”  
Stiles nodded before getting to his feet, clearing his throat.  
“Danny is a good friend. You should start texting him a little more often,” Peter suggested gently as he stood. “But, about clothing for today. I know you and Chris are about the same pants size, so I'd suggest wearing some of his jeans. And then I'd prefer if you wore one of my shirts. There's a pack in both big towns and I'd prefer you smell like me instead of just vaguely of wolves.”  
“Okay,” Stiles nodded, rubbing his hands over his arms a few times to try and warm them up. The cool air was finally starting to make itself known. Peter smiled as he handed Stiles a Henley and a pull-over, rolling his eyes at the little excited squeaking sound Stiles made when he felt how soft it was.  
“Go get ready, you nerd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saved my thank you note to my beta reader for the end notes because of the not so fun and lively tone of the beginning notes! She has been continually a lovely aid to me in my endeavors. This is the first chapter of this piece that she had beta'd for me, and I am, as always, immensely grateful! ♥
> 
>  
> 
> [She Tumbls](https://www.sterekmarryme.tumblr.com/)  
> [I Tumbl](https://www.squishysterek.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, admittedly, a filler to hopefully stave y'all off while I work the Steter Reverse Bang. I'm participating as an artist and author, so my hands are ridiculously full!  
> I want to dedicate this little snippet to Zeffur, who's had the unfortunate luck of getting their life involved in this piece. I'm sorry, love!
> 
> I will be updating at least two other pieces before I delve deep into my writing for the event.  
> I have some surprises in store, I can't wait to share them with y'all! ♥  
> \- J.M.O.

Stiles kept running his fingers over the soft material of the jumper Peter had given him to wear, watching the scenery out the window as they drove in an easy silence, Billie Eilish’s voice droning in the background. Or, at least, they were in companionable silence until Stiles’ ADD decided to make itself known.  
“Are we going into Taos, or just Questa?”  
“I have a feeling you want some flannel, so I planned on stopping at Jay’s in Questa, unless you just wanna give it a go straight to Taos.”  
“I’m asking because I have a tattoo I want to get and the Taos tattoo gallery is supposed to be where it’s at. All my friends that used to live down here said it’s where they got their first tattoo.”  
“You want a tattoo?” Peter glanced over in slight surprise. “Since when?”  
“I’ve been wanting one for awhile but wasn’t sure what to get. I’ve made up my mind, now.”  
“Do I get to know, or am I just along for the ride?”  
“You get to know afterwards so you can’t try to talk me out of it or alter it in any way.”  
“What makes you think I would?”  
“There’s every chance you’ll be messing with me and accidentally make me change my mind because I’m a self-conscious, depressed mess.”  
“Well, at least you’re self aware,” Peter shrugged nonchalantly and gave his full attention back to the road, turning the music up slightly.  
Stiles huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Peter with more sarcasm than heat to his gaze.  
“You’re not supposed to let me get away with that.”  
Peter shrugged, trying and failing to hide a smirk as he pulled into the parking lot of a small thrift shop. “Don’t live in denial, honesty is the best policy, all that jazz.”  
Stiles glared at Peter through the window before getting out and mumbling under his breath, “Maybe I should leave. I don’t know if I prefer being ignored or having my issues blared with a neon sign in my face.”  
“It’s not being ignored, it’s being not cared for,” Peter said pointedly, giving Stiles a long look before he began walking towards the shop.  
“Maybe I don’t want to be cared for.”  
“Or maybe you’ve been living in neglect for so long you tell yourself that so it doesn’t hurt as much when the thoughts overwhelm you at night.”  
“Whom the fuck gave you the right to come into _my house_ and disrespect me, call me out-”  
“Point out the bad things so maybe you can move on and learn to accept only what you deserve for yourself?”  
“Shut up and stop being right. It’s annoying.”  
“I’m just trying to embody your energy, or however you say it.”  
“Awh, the old man is trying to keep up with the young-people speak! Cute,” Stiles cooed at Peter before giggling and leading him through the front door and over to the racks of flannels.  
“Get as many as you want. I won’t have your gay ass freezing in some cheap flannel patterned cotton button-down because you wanted A Look.”  
“Okay, two things,” Stiles scoffed without looking up from the tops he was carding through. “I will be the one paying, so I will determine the number of flannels I get. Also, stop fucking calling me out on my bullshit.”  
“Someone’s got to look out for you, what with all of your idiotic, rash, suicidal tendencies.”  
“Please stop dragging me in public,” Stiles mumbled, casting a weak glare at Peter over his shoulder.  
“I’ll do as I please. I’m also not stupid enough you can fake a panic attack around me, so don’t tell me to stop unless it’s actually detrimental to your health and not just hard to stomach because you hate yourself that much.”  
Stiles’ shoulders went tight as he focused a little too intently on choosing flannels for a few minutes before finally speaking up.  
“Then you have to let me do the same.”  
“You can try all you want, Stiles, but I’m pretty open with myself about who I am.”  
“Hmkay. Then you won’t have a problem with me paying for these clothes because you need to realize you can’t fix leaving me without saying goodbye by throwing money at me.”  
Peter went rock solid, narrowing his eyes slightly. Stiles smiled tiredly, a bit of mirth behind his eyes. “Not that much fun, is it, big boy?”  
“I wasn’t psychoanalysing you. I was stating facts.”  
“You were taking parts of my psyche and making points of them. I’m just saying chill the fuck out while we’re in a public place or I genuinely will destroy you. Freezing my ass off in a cheap fake flannel or not.”  
“You’re not even in a cheap fake flannel.”  
“But I will be when you send me back to Beacon Hills because I made you realize just how much you don’t admit to yourself. Or that you admit to yourself but won’t work on. Or that you don’t want to think too hard about.”  
“At least my alphabet soup doesn’t contain OCD and require me to do everything in sets of three, five, seven, or seventeen and hate the number four but have four numbers that I like.”  
“You really did get thrown by that comment, wow. Sensitive wolfie,” Stiles murmured with a tight grin, patting Peter’s cheek before making his way to the checkout counter. “My alphabet soup isn't a sensitive enough subject it'll hurt me, bud. I thought you knew this by now.”  
“Sometimes it does. You just don’t admit it to yourself.”  
“But my OCD, of all things? Why do you think that’s the one to attack at the moment?”  
“I decided halfway through my thought that I wasn’t going to ‘drag you in public’ any more, and that it wouldn’t be very fair of me to just switch into attack mode when you’ve had a long morning.”  
“Every morning is long when you wake up at 3 a.m. from nightmares and spend the morning in a daze, shifting between two realities because your brain doesn’t want to function in the real world just yet. It does, however, provide some nice thoughts when I’m staring at the trees on the mountains.”  
“Such as?”  
“How similar the wind is to water and waves in the ocean. Really, the only difference is the molecular structure and polarity, its base makeup. It ebbs and flows, gathers in denser areas and has different levels of pressure at different depths and heights. It is only breathable to certain creatures, and a select few creatures live in one area but breathe in the other. Each have living beings that are minuscule and enormous. Tornadoes and whirlpools are exact opposites of each other, funnels of each medium that bring destruction and disorientation to anything they come in contact with. They both have an immense range of temperatures, from intensely hot to freezing cold, but still have creatures that can live in either temperature. They have forests, whether of trees or kelp, vast hills of grass, sand dunes and canyons and cliffs. Certain parts are sparsely inhabited but still inhabited nonetheless,” Stiles trailed off, worrying a spot of fabric against his fingers, his eyes going unfocused as his thoughts took over and withheld his mouth from communicating any of the other images and connections running around in his head. Peter smiled softly and let him be until the line was empty and they needed to check out.  
Stiles didn’t need a nudge from Peter, he stepped forward of his own volition and paid for the clothing himself, all the while rendered mute, his eyes still slightly unfocused.  
He didn’t speak again until they were entering the Taos city limits, blinking his eyes a few times rather forcefully before he looked over at Peter.  
“We’re almost like the dolphins of land. We can exist in water, but if we’re there for too long we’ll die. We can move between each ‘world,’ but have to stick to our own.”  
“I think a bit of a flaw in that thinking is that we don’t breathe water,” Peter murmured.  
“What do you mean?”  
“If we really were the dolphins of land, we’d breathe water and exist on land.”  
“That’s a good point. Maybe if I think of it as us always having to drink water, and if we go a long time without doing that we die, just like if they go a long time without getting air they die?”  
“Two different bodily functions, but I think that’s a good comparison,” Peter smiled in amusement, pulling into a parking space in a small paid parking lot just outside of the town square.  
“That was all really stupid, wasn’t it?”  
“Different people process events in their own way. It doesn’t have to make sense to me.”  
“Yeah, but it _was_ stupid, wasn’t it?”  
Peter shrugged indifferently. “Who am I to judge?”  
“The person who’s going to have to deal with these kinds of thoughts if I stay.”  
Peter took a deep breath to gather his thoughts before he looked over at Stiles. “I don’t think it’s stupid, I just find it entertaining in an endearing way. Your brain is always doing so many things at once and the thoughts you have, granted, don’t always make sense to me, but they don’t have to because it’s not my brain having these thoughts.”  
“So it was idiotic, not stupid?”  
“Are you fishing for insults? Because I don’t give them unless they’re deserved. Just because you’re used to everyone in Beacon Hills calling you names for these thoughts doesn’t mean it’s the norm or that everyone will react that way. I don’t respond to things that don’t make sense by insulting them if I can help it. You have deeper thoughts, just because they may be weird doesn’t mean they’re deserving of any insult. If you’re going to be staying with me and sharing these thoughts, then you need to understand that I will not be insulting them, for the most part. Do you understand me?”  
Stiles swallowed thickly, staring intensely out the window. He’d dropped Peter’s gaze a while ago, intimidated and uncomfortable at the extreme… passion? Care? Love? that was being hurled at him in the moment. All he could offer was a small nod in response, watching the people walking around outside the car. It was easy to tell the difference between the townspeople and tourists simply by what they wore. The natives could walk around comfortably in nothing but a pullover and jeans in 20° weather when the summer “heat” was 60° at the most. A gaggle of teenagers in puffy ski coats and thick leggings were huddled on a corner, looking at their phones, probably arguing over where to go for lunch. Stiles couldn’t help a twinge of nostalgia at the sight, but it was promptly shattered by the thought that he’d be on the edge of the group just listening, left to simply follow whatever plans were made and not offer his own two cents because it would be ignored or scoffed at.  
He sighed quietly and turned his attention back to Peter. Soft eyes were watching him, patiently waiting for whatever he was supposed to say.  
“Did I miss something?” Stiles asked sheepishly, shifting around in the seat and pulling a sleeve down to worry between his fingers.  
“No, I was just waiting until you were done processing and suggested where we go.”  
“Why is it up to me?”  
“I figure you have a few spots you want to hit since it’s been so long since you’ve been here.”  
“Why don’t we just go for a walk around town and see what we come across?” Stiles asked quietly, looking out the window again. Peter’s eyes were making him anxious. He didn’t want all of this attention at the moment.  
“Sounds like an idea I can get on board with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my views or statements absolutely do not have to reflect those of my lovely lovely lovely editor!
> 
> I hope y'all have enjoyed. As usual, we both Tumbl. Check us out!  
> See you soon (:

**Author's Note:**

> [I Tumbl](https://www.squishysterek.tumblr.com/)


End file.
